


delilah, avenge my grief

by majesdanes



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F, Post 5B, Split Queen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 21:38:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7071445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdanes/pseuds/majesdanes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh, Regina,” the queen sighs. “You can’t control me.” Her voice hardens, almost imperceptibly. “You surrendered that right when you tore us apart.”</p><p>Post-5B; In which Emma and Regina encounter an Evil Queen bent on vengeance in more ways than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	delilah, avenge my grief

Emma knocks at the door every day; she leaves texts when Regina won’t answer ( _just wanted to check in_ and _i get that you need space, but henry’s worried about you…_ and _call me if you need anything okay?_ ). Regina ignores them like she does Emma’s visits, and the myriad of phone calls from a well-meaning Snow White, who pours increasingly anxious messages into Regina’s answering machine as though she knows Regina is listening on the other end of the line despite herself. Emma doesn’t comment on the fact that she’d had Henry a week longer than usual–only sends an accommodating text ( _yeah of course, no problem_ ) when Regina asks that she keep him.

On some level, she knows it isn’t right to burden all of them with this– _whatever_ it is. But she’d seen the queen reflected back to her in every mirror since the night she’d crushed her heart; it gnaws at her, this creeping surety that the threat of the queen remains, somehow. It doesn’t make _sense_ , of course. Regina had seen her disintegrate, the dust of her body swept away with the wind. The thought doesn’t comfort her, though–only strengthens the growing fear that Regina is _lacking_ without her, that she’d destroyed some part of herself that could never be recovered. She hates herself for thinking that, can’t help but feel sick with guilt for registering the empty place that the queen had once occupied as a _loss_ ; perhaps they would hate her too, if they only knew that she mourned the absence of a murderer nearly as much as she feared her return.

And so she retreats into the empty expanse of her house, isolates herself from those who would offer her reassurances that would only fall flat and attention she doesn’t deserve; she buries herself in work instead, in the solidity of charters signed and budgets balanced. And when the knock comes at her door, Regina doesn’t so much as look up–only acknowledges the longing twist in her gut as a matter of course, calls out something like, “Go away, Emma. I already told you this morning–I’m busy,” and cranes to hear her retreating footsteps. No sound echoes back to her, only the steady whir of the ceiling fan overhead, but Regina returns her attention to the document in front of her anyway, a forced, frantic edge to her focus now; she feels a migraine coming on, a prickling of pain just at the edges of her consciousness, when there’s a puff of purple smoke. She looks up slowly, knowing what she’ll find–and not wanting to meet it.

There’s a sense of cognitive dissonance to it, the sight of the queen–with her hair piled high on her head, jewels dripping from the hollow of her throat, satin skirts billowing–standing in Regina’s ultra-modern bedroom as if she belongs there. Regina doesn’t have time to contemplate the strangeness of it; she feels too much as though she’s about to be sick. Garnering the few defenses she has left, she stands, steadies the harshness of her breathing into something she can speak through. “I thought you were dead,” she says, and nearly chokes on the words. “I thought I killed you.” She’d _seemed_ dead enough, and the wide-eyed betrayal of her expression had felt final in more ways than one; still, Regina isn’t surprised by her return, though she can’t say if it’s for any reason other than that she’d come to view pain and misfortune as an inevitability.

A smile flits across the queen’s face at the question; Regina can see that it’s meant to be smooth and cold (recognizes the effort behind it, the attempt at a mask of indifference) but it falls just short of the mark; there’s a barely concealed fury to the thin line of it that’s too too familiar. The queen approaches her as she would a child, all gentle steps and placating gestures. “How could I possibly die,” she coos, that smile stretching over-wide, “when you still live?”

Regina lets the full weight of that sink in, braces an arm against the wood of the bed frame and clutches at stubborn defiance with the desperation of a woman who knows it’s all that’s left to her. “And what does _that_ have to do with anything,” she snarls, harsh to hide the fear that’s swiftly taking shape inside of her. But the queen had never had patience for manipulations; they have that much in common. She closes the space between them with a single stride and says, still smiling that uneven smile: “I think you know.”

Regina’s knees buckle beneath her, then, and for a moment she blames herself–thinks that without the queen perhaps she’d softened irrevocably, laid herself barer than she’d been since she was young and still vulnerable. But then she recognizes the unnaturalness of it, the pressure from some invisible weight on her shoulders and the insistent tug at her legs, like phantom hands molding her into place, until she’s kneeling at the foot of her own bed; it’s all she can do to hold the position, spine stiff with pride despite the ghost of a hand that presses at her back, seeks without success to bend it into something resembling a bow. The queen crouches beside her and grazes Regina’s chin with a finger; gently, she tips her head up until their eyes meet, dark on dark.

At the touch, Regina recoils instinctively, but the queen’s grip is firm. Her skin is warm against Regina’s, and in a sense it’s like coming together again–right in as many ways as it’s wrong. Idly, she registers that some part of her must crave the connection, that missing piece of her sliding into place; need and longing mingle with revulsion, make her hands clench white-knuckled at her sides. She moves to turn away, but the queen’s black-lacquered nails dig into her jaw. “Don’t touch me,” Regina spits, incensed with herself as much so as the queen, for allowing the contact in the first place.

The queen doesn’t move; if anything, she clutches all the more tightly at the command. But the cool mask wavers and there’s a hesitance to her voice when she speaks, a sharp, strained quality. “You don’t hate me, dear–not really.” Regina wants to deny that, but she’s not sure of the truth herself–and she’s transfixed, besides, swept up in the rawness and the humanity in the queen’s eyes; Regina had wanted so much to dismiss her as nothing more than a manifestation of the darkness she’d cast off, stripped of the emotion and experience that had made Regina _herself_. She knows now how wrong she’d been, and she could scream with the unfairness of it–could kick herself for allowing this to happen, for siphoning all of the pain of her past into a tangible body that lives and breathes and watches her with frenzied eyes Regina had only ever seen in the mirror before now.  

“And why is that?” she asks warily; her jaw moves against the queen’s palm as she speaks, still cupped there with force.

“You apologized.” Regina remembers, of course–remembers a ragged _I’m sorry,_ and the ashes of the queen’s heart slipping through the spaces between her fingers. Beneath the queen in all her rage is the girl whose belief in fate and happy endings had been crushed; Regina can no more separate herself from either of them than stop breathing. And it’s not with the sadistic pleasure she’d once found in causing enemies pain, but with a tired kind of finality that she replies, “Out of pity.”

The queen’s smile tightens on her face until it’s an ugly rictus; she lurches away, dropping Regina’s chin as though her skin burns to touch.

And suddenly, Regina can’t move.

She remembers nightmares where some false dream-world had merged brutally with a reality she couldn’t return to completely; even in sleep, she’d been conscious of her body, unable to move or to cry out for help. And Leopold, beside her, had slept on, at peace even as his young wife woke drenched in sweat, flexing her hands just to prove she still could. That same helplessness descends on her now, the queen Medusa and Regina a woman turned to stone beneath her gaze. She can’t move, can only swallow back bile and glare with naked hatred in her eyes as a second knock comes at the front door, and the queen’s smile turns predatory. “It’s so cruel of you to turn her away.” The queen examines her nails, a display that’s aloof in all the way she’s never been; the light in her eyes betrays her, bright and animated like those of a child in a candy store. “Maybe I’ll keep her company, while you’re–” She gives a tilt of her head, almost playful. “...all tied up.”

Horror builds in Regina’s chest, blooms outward so that she’s suffocating with it. Whatever empathy she’d felt seems foolish to her now, a mark of the impressionable girl she’d been, not the woman she’d become; if she could, she would kill the queen a second time–could laugh at the Regina of weeks earlier who’d plunged a hand past the queen’s chest and _squeezed_ only with trepidation, only with indecision. If she could move, she would forget the heart entirely, would eschew even fireballs to grab her by the throat and bleed the life from a face so much like her own–anything but _this_.

She’s rifling through Regina’s wardrobe now, tossing aside understated pant suits and silk blouses with disgust; it’s only when she finds a red dress that she pauses, slips it from its hanger and brings it to her chin, testing. The material clings to every curve when she shimmies into it, baring a body identical to Regina’s down to the mole at the crest of her hip. “Shorter than we wear them at home, isn’t it?” she murmurs, smoothing wrinkles with an idle hand. “What do you think?”

“Stay away from her,” Regina warns, venom in her voice. But the queen only turns to the vanity, shaking her hair from it’s updo and styling it with an easy flick of her wrist so that it falls in a dark sheet past her shoulder, wholly identical to Regina’s. She’s half in the hallway, one hand on the door, when Regina snaps, “ _Don’t_ –!” hating that the single word, saturated with fear, betrays her. The queen glances over her shoulder, alight with anticipation; Regina remembers that look well (had worn it herself) and knows with crushing certainty what comes after.

“Oh, Regina,” the queen sighs. “You can’t control me.” Her voice hardens, almost imperceptibly. “You surrendered that right when you tore us apart.”

The door slams behind her, leaving Regina on her knees with her heart in her throat and visions of Emma Swan’s blood on her hands.

 

*    *    *

 

Emma doesn’t expect the door to swing open; she’s prepared–as she had been for days and even weeks, ever since Regina had established this rhythm between them, Emma giving chase and Regina taking flight in response–for rejection. She’d already turned to leave, shoulders heavy with the weight of yet another failed attempt (but she’d lingered long enough; any longer would be _creepy,_ right?), when a voice behind her drawls, “ _Emma_ –come in.”

Which, okay–of all the scenarios she’d been expecting, this is far from one of them. When Regina had lost Robin for the first time, she’d been swallowed up by her grief; wryly, she remembers it as the first time she’d seen Regina in casual clothes–and the last. But _this_ Regina looks nothing like a woman who’d been enduring a prison of self-imposed isolation for days on end; she’s–well, she’s as stunning as ever, all red lips and stiletto heels and a dress with a neckline that plunges so daringly Emma finds she can’t look away. Regina catches her in the act, and those red lips split into an uncharacteristic smile (ripe and wide and unrestrained, full of some promise Emma can’t name). Emma coughs into her hand, reddens, looks determinedly at her own feet until the embarrassment subsides.

Regina’s eyes are still fixed on her when she glances up again; they linger too long, rove Emma up and down only to drink her in with an expression that’s hungry and oddly removed all at once, and Emma is thrown by it. “Is something wrong?” Regina asks–God, practically _purrs_ –and Emma swallows to soothe a throat gone suddenly dry.

“No,” she says, and maybe the answer comes a little too quickly to pass for nonchalant, because Regina’s smile only stretches wider; her eyes, though, remain calculating, fixed uncompromisingly on Emma, even as she gestures behind her. “Something to drink?” she asks, and takes Emma’s nod as her cue to lead her into the study. She busies herself with finding glasses, hissing something under her breath as she moves from one cabinet to the next; it’s unlike Regina, who’s usually so meticulous, and Emma is beginning to think that maybe she’s under more stress than she’d let on when Regina slides into the seat beside her, a glass in each hand.

Emma wills herself not to shift in place, even though Regina’s bare thigh is rubbing up against hers; she does her best not to let her surprise show in her expression, because this?–this is _not_ something they do. Wherever possible, they sit across from each other; even on the rare occasion that Henry had demanded a family movie night, they were always careful to position him between them on the couch, and the closest they’d come to touching then was when their hands met around the barrier of his shoulders.

If she didn’t know better, she’d think Regina was deliberately trying to make her uncomfortable–but surely they’re past that, by now?

She lets Regina fill her glass with cider but nurses it, wary for reasons she can’t place. Concerned, she makes a split-second decision, closes the space between them and clasps Regina’s hand in hers; her heart ricochets, a warning pounding in her chest, but she stubbornly ignores that–finds Regina’s eyes instead, and musters the warmest smile she can. “I’ve been texting you for over a week with no reply,” she says, and finds that it’s not difficult to be patient now that they’re together in person, although she’d dealt with mounting frustration and then annoyance (and always– _always_ –worry) as the days passed into weeks without a word between them.

“I came by to see you at least every day, you must have heard me knocking. Are you–I mean, I know you’re not _okay_ , but–” She runs her free hand through her hair, suddenly nervous; she’d never been good with words, talked herself into a meaningless tangle all too easily, especially where it mattered. (Especially with _people_ who mattered).

Regina says nothing, for a moment; she’s taken aback by the affection in that contact, the sincerity of it. A beat passes, heavy, and then: “I’m _fine_ , dear.” She sounds _irritated_ (when was the last time she’d called Emma _dear_?), and Emma wonders whether she’d somehow pushed too far. But then, slipping into that strange, cat-like ease again, she presses, “And Henry? Where is he?”

“With my parents, you know that.”

“Of course,” says Regina, waving a dismissive hand (a foreign gesture, lofty in all the ways Regina hadn’t been in years), as though she’d already known the answer she would get. “ _How_ is he?”

“Good.” Emma’s brow furrows. “He’s good. He misses you, Regina.”

“And _you_?” Regina demands.

“I–what?”

“Have _you_ missed me, Emma? All this time that I’ve been locked away, pathetic, licking my wounds?” Emma’s at a loss, baffled by the accusation in her voice, the fury; if it’s self-directed, it’s a more brutal hatred than she’d ever imagined even Regina to be capable of, but it doesn’t _sound_ like that, seems somehow to cut much deeper.

They don’t _do_ honesty–not like this; but there’s something in Regina’s face that frightens her, a kind of fever, and Emma aches for her, for everything she’d been through in the last year alone. “I’ve...been worried,” she tries, tentative. “I know you need your space, but I–” She cuts off abruptly, nearly chokes on the words when Regina stands and leans over her until their foreheads meet.

“That’s not what I asked,” she murmurs, dangerous, and the red of her lips is so close to Emma’s she has to suck in a breath to steady herself. “Did. You. Miss. Me.”

She tries to clear her head, but it’s impossible with Regina practically on top of her, one knee digging into the waistband of Emma’s pants, a lock of that dark hair soft against Emma’s cheek. “ _Regina_ ,” she manages, and it’s meant to be a warning but it comes out brittle with need, lays her want bare in spite of all the years she’d spent trying to suppress it. “God, of course,” she relents, eyes falling closed. “Of course I missed you.” Regina freezes, one hand twined in the cloud of Emma’s hair, the other idly palming Emma’s thigh in ways that set her heart racing. And then she _laughs_ , high and clear and vaguely hysterical.

There’s understanding in her eyes, as though Emma had provided her with the answer to a question she’d been seeking all this time, and something _clicks_ into place at the sight. She stands so quickly Regina is forced to leap out of her lap. “Leaving so soon, dear?” she asks, the mocking in her voice all too clear now. Emma doesn’t think, just whirls around–all anger and impulse–and slams Regina into the wall at their backs. She can feel Regina breathing beneath her, the rise and fall of flushed skin where Emma’s hand rests against the jut of her collarbone. She inhales sharply.

“You’re not Regina.”

The queen smirks. She leans forward, and Emma tenses for a fight, but she only reaches for the gold of a curl that had sprung free and tucks it behind Emma’s ear, impossibly (almost teasingly) gentle. “But I am a part of her,” she says, so sure of herself.

When Emma breathes out it’s shallow, and she hates herself for the viscerality of her reaction, the shiver the queen’s touch elicits with so little effort. “I’m not really in the mood for games.” The words come out hoarse, but frankly she’s relieved they come at all. “Where is she?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” the queen scoffs, looking bored by the question. “I’ve kept her nice and safe for you.”

“ _Where_ ,” Emma demands, hard and flat. The queen puffs out a sigh.

“Always in such a _rush_ , Emma. Am I not enough for you?” It’s purposefully idle, but layered beneath it is something like possession, and Emma’s shaken by it. The queen–with her black, searching eyes, the rich, chilling timbre of her laugh–isn’t _her_ Regina (and she shakes off the fondness of _that_ line of thinking, amends _Storybrooke’s_ Regina like the damage hadn’t already been done) but she isn’t _not_ . She’s Regina with her jagged edges on display, red as an open wound; she’s _familiar_ , a piece of a whole she’d seen surface on occasions when the two of them had come to blows, the harshness and the immediacy of her, and Emma wants to turn away but she– _can’t_. And the queen seems to know it.

She leans in until they’re touching, takes Emma’s bottom lip between her teeth; it’s something Emma hadn’t expected from a woman so accustomed to seizing instant gratification, slow and searching and utterly deliberate. Her lips graze Emma’s as she turns into the kiss, breath warm in Emma’s mouth. There’s a tentative rhythm to it–one Emma finds herself sinking into wholly, enveloped in nails that dig crescent marks into the skin of her waist, and a heart beating time against the press of her palm that could almost be Regina’s–and _God_ , what the hell is she doing? Emma’s heart lurches, settles somewhere in the vicinity of her throat; her hand stiffens and drops away, and the queen’s eyes open.

The queen smiles, triumphant beneath that harsh veneer–a stranger’s smile on Regina’s face, and it could almost be her. Could almost be Regina who breaks away, then, lets her mouth move down and down, hot against Emma’s neck and then farther, to suck at a spot just above the valley between her breasts until the skin there ripens, turns purple; could almost be Regina who tugs at the straps of her plain, white cotton bra, rough with impatience, nips too hard and too eager; she leaves lipstick marks that bloom scarlet in her wake. The queen’s hand strays, falls to the button of her jeans until she’s plucking at the zipper with a wicked grin like a slash of red on her face, and Emma arches into the touch even as she thinks that it’s _wrong_ –that it could be, could be, could be–isn’t.

“No,” she gasps, and the queen’s lips part with surprise– _Regina_ ’s lips, that same beauty mark a dark speck at the corner of her mouth. “No,” she says again, breathless but firm. “You’re not–Not enough.”

It’s true and it’s not. She doesn’t care enough to interrogate it–only knows that she’d wasted enough time, and feels shame course through her at the thought of how easily she’d fallen prey to _want_ no doubt better off forgotten. Her lips are still kiss-swollen, warm from the queen’s touch, and she brings a shaking hand to them as she vanishes from the study. She’s too rattled to track Regina, and so she storms up and down the halls instead, flinging open doors, shouting her name more to ward off her own panic than anything else. And then, thin and muffled through the heavy oak door, her name: “Emma?” And Emma lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

She finds her on her knees, wild with fear. In an instant, Emma is at her feet. “Can you stand?” she asks urgently. Regina says, ragged, “No, no, I can’t move,” and Emma’s heart _lurches_. Gentle, hesitant, she snakes an arm around Regina’s waist, watches as the spell shakes free of her in fits and starts and Regina stands on legs as wobbly as a colt’s.

Even then, Emma clutches her tightly–but Regina doesn’t rebuke her, doesn’t brush her hands away with a muttered, “Your concern is touching, Ms. Swan, but I can handle myself perfectly fine, thank you,” though she half-expects it. “Emma,” she starts instead, tentative, and there’s something so _warm_ , so like gratitude in that single word that Emma feels sick with guilt at the sound of it.

Before Emma can correct her, they’re interrupted by the queen, who sweeps in as though she still wears flowing silks, and not Regina’s Burberry cocktail dress, her hair still mussed from their encounter. “That’s the second time you’ve tried to walk out on me tonight. If I didn’t know better,” she says, and there’s dangerous note to her voice now, “I’d think I wasn’t welcome here.”  

Regina is still weak from the effects of the queen’s spell; she moves to stand in front of Emma anyway, _protection_ in the lines of her squared shoulders. “I told you to stay away from her.”

“She seemed eager to see me, actually.” The queen tilts her head, plays at solemnity though a smile threatens at the corners of her lips. “I’m afraid you haven’t been very attentive to her lately.”

“ _She’s_ right here,” Emma snaps, and reaches for Regina’s hand. “ _Regina_ ,” she says in a fierce undertone, “There’s gotta be some way to–I don’t know, cast a protection spell, ward your house against her until we can–” She quiets when the queen strides forward, grip on Regina’s wrist tightening in warning.

“You can’t keep me out forever,” she says, soft, and maybe it’s a reply to what Emma had said, but the words are for Regina and Regina alone. There’s no more than a hand’s breadth separating them, and the queen draws inexorably nearer until she’d closed the distance remaining, her eyes never once leaving Regina’s. Regina plants herself like a mountain, jaw set stubbornly.

“You don’t know that,” she says, and it sounds like a promise.

“You did _try_ to destroy me didn’t you,” the queen scoffs, dismissive. “Where did that leave you?” And that, of course, Regina can’t answer; neither of them can.

The queen smiles, eyes as clear as Regina the princess, Regina the _girl_ who’d dreamed of love; she leans forward and presses her lips to Regina’s forehead. It’s such a gentle gesture that Emma doesn’t see her hand jerk forward, plunge past Regina’s breast, slot between the gaps in her ribcage and _wrench_. Even as the pressure of the queen’s lips against her recedes, her heart comes free, glowing sun-bright in the queen’s open palm. There’s an ugly twist to her smile now, the blood that wets her palms lit eerily by the radiance of the heart she holds. “I’m sorry,” she says, a mocking approximation of the same apology Regina had offered her.

But if her plan had been to crush the heart, as Regina had hers, she makes no move to do so now. Regina sees her opportunity and lunges, palms aflame, and the queen mirrors the movement with her free hand until the room is suffused with heat born of the fire. It’s a meaningless stand-off, though, when a misplaced attack from Regina would only end with her own heart reduced to ash; she raises a threatening hand anyway, all passion and impulse and little thought in the climax of a fight, and it’s only Emma’s hand that stays her.

“You’d do well to listen to her,” the queen croons, eyes meeting Emma’s and holding them over Regina’s shoulder. “The girl clearly cares for us, after all.” Regina hand wavers around the flame, but she doesn’t extinguish it fully; her knuckles twitch around the blaze, like she’s itching to punch the scornful smile from the queen’s face.

Emma beats her to it.

Her fist makes contact with the queen’s jaw, the impact enough to send her stumbling into the door; her lips part with surprise and outrage, a physical attack the last line of offense she’d expected to encounter–and one she’s utterly unprepared to answer in kind. Emma had been banking on that (knew well enough what _Regina_ looked like in a fight–all flaming palms and potent waves of dark magic, and pure instinct) and she takes advantage of the queen’s disbelief to advance again, grabbing for Regina’s heart as it springs from her open hand.

She remembers her magic, then–still a weapon in her arsenal she’d never _really_ adjusted to–and summons a barrier that flares to life between them. It scalds the queen when she extends a hand to test its strength, and she smiles with something unsettlingly like delight. “Why fight with your fists when you have such _power_?”

“Yeah, well, my fists have worked out pretty well for me so far,” Emma says flatly, with a nod to the queen still trapped behind her invisible wall. She cradles Regina’s heart, palms thick with its blood, the warm weight of it a reassurance–doesn’t so much as look up when she adds grimly, “If I were you, I’d run. But you won’t get far.” She closes her eyes, feels the steady _thrum_ of the life cupped between shaking hands. “I hope it was worth it.”

The queen only offers that maddening smile, and Emma is uncomfortably reminded of that flash of understanding in the study earlier, of the queen peppering kisses along Emma’s collarbone, hearing her gasp–high and hopeful–and smiling that same Cheshire Cat smile of satisfaction and arousal and something–more. Something calculating. Her eyes linger, for a protracted moment, on Regina’s heart, still clutched tight in Emma’s grip. “Oh,” she says, strangely exuberant, “I think I’ve found _exactly_ what I was looking for.”

And then she’s swallowed up in purple smoke, leaving Emma in silent bafflement and Regina tense and inexplicably fearful, though the danger had passed. Her mouth tightens, then, becomes a grimace of pain, and she says, “ _Emma_ ,” sharply.

“What–” Emma ventures, and then realizes she’d been clenching the heart too tightly, fingers dug into the flesh of it as if she feared it might slip through them otherwise. Flustered, she loosens her hold, lets a string of apologies spill out of her until Regina quiets her with a smile, still sardonic even through the strain.

Amid Regina’s impassioned protests, Emma helps her onto the bed. “Can you just–sit _still_ and let me…put it back,” she groans. Regina snorts, either amused or exasperated, although Emma’s too frazzled to decide which. _Okay,_  she thinks, _focus_. Breathe in. Breathe out.

The heart glows red when she lifts it to the light; it’s muddled with dark spots, inky in places, paling to grey in others. If Regina is uncomfortable with Emma’s close scrutiny, she doesn’t say–only waits, struggling not to fidget with impatience, as Emma leans forward to press her palm flat against Regina’s chest. Regina starts, glances up sharply, and Emma hurries in with, “...here?”

“Oh.” She swallows. “A little more to the left.” And then her hand is on Emma’s, guiding, until their fingers intertwine against the place where her heart should be, absent now of its steady pulse.

Emma is nervous, and she thrusts the heart with slightly too much enthusiasm; she winces when Regina jolts as heart and hand sink through skin, lets a hiss escape through her clenched teeth.

When it’s done, Regina leans back with a hand pressed to her newly restored heart, feeling for the rhythmic beat of it. “You know,” she says wryly, meeting Emma’s eyes, “I could have done that myself.”  

And–of _course_. Of course she could have.

Awkward now, Emma scratches at the back of her head–averts her eyes so that she’s looking anywhere but back at Regina, at the bemusement of her expression. But Regina _scoffs_ loud enough that Emma’s drawn back to her, rolls her eyes and says, “I’m glad, Emma.” The instant the words are out of her mouth, she seems to regret having said them. “That it was you. I–” She shakes her head, shrugs off what sounds too much (and Emma could kick herself for the thought, for the warmth that floods her, stupidly hopeful) like affection.

Regina shifts uncomfortably, and casts around for a different topic–anything to discourage Emma from staring at her like _that_. Her eyes narrow when they settle on the collection of bruises on Emma’s neck. “You’re hurt,” she says, concern mingling with accusation. Fingers fall to the dark patches to trace them with such obvious compassion that Emma feels intrusive even for watching her. Regina’s voice raises an octave, all self-righteous anger, and she bites out, “ _What_ did she–”

Emma reddens. “Um, no. It’s nothing like that. I–She...”

Another beat passes, Regina’s brow furrowed deeply. And then, with dawning realization: “You–She–” she splutters, any semblance of easy indifference gone. “You _didn’t_!”

“She just–kind of... _came_ at me. I wasn’t thinking, I’m sorry. You know, that it’s not...it doesn’t mean anything.” She’s _rambling_ –it’s painfully obvious–but she can’t seem to bring herself to stop. “I mean, she– _you_ must have...done this all the time.”

Regina won’t meet her eyes. She purses her lips, turns her chin up, says, “ _No_ , I didn’t,” so frostily that Emma edges away from her instinctively.

And Emma has no idea what to make of _that_ , except: “Are you...jealous. Of yourself?”

It’s a ridiculous question–ridiculous that the world they inhabited allowed for the scenario to exist in the first place, and somehow even _more_ ridiculous that Emma had been stupid enough to ask it. But impossibly–unbelievably–Regina’s cheeks warm. “I–that’s absurd.” Emma opens her mouth, poised to say something to chase the question away, pass it off as a poorly conceived joke. But Regina passes a weary hand over her forehead, still flushed, and says irritably, “She was only trying to get to me.”

“Hey!” Emma protests. “Are you implying that, what–my natural charm had _nothing_ to do with it?” It’s warm and it’s teasing, but more than anything else it’s a distraction tactic, a way of brushing all of this under the rug where it belongs. Except she can’t stop turning Regina’s last remark over in her head, can’t stop wondering– “Why?” she asks, the smile slipping. “Why would that–get to you?”

 _"Emma_ ,” Regina says with an angry huff of a laugh. And then Regina is kissing her: her temple, the corner of her lips, and then her mouth, soft but insistent.

“How long,” Emma breathes, voice hitching, halfway to a groan as Regina runs a knuckle along the marks the queen had left behind, presses down there like possession (like reclaiming). _Years,_ Regina thinks, and says only, “Does it matter?” a murmur against Emma’s open mouth. Emma has no breath to answer, responds instead by sliding her arms around Regina’s waist, lifting her into her lap with ease and kissing back, hard.

Regina opens her eyes at the shift in position, and she lets her hand fall away from the mottled bruises, pulls back to sweep the hair from Emma’s face. Tentative, exploring, she traces the line of Emma’s jaw with a slender finger, watches her with eyes that hurt as much as they hope. She dips her head to press a kiss to Emma's lips, slow and sweet and luxurious like a mark of all the years they'd wasted apart. “She wanted to use you against me,” Regina murmurs, pulling reluctantly away. She laughs, a flat, bleak sound. “I thought she would kill you, but–” Her next words are a concession. “I think she’s decided you’re more use to her alive.”

“How good of her,” Emma says dryly, and tries not to dwell on what that _means_. “I’m assuming she’ll come for Henry next.”

“I’m sure she will.” Regina’s voice is hard, fury ever-present just beneath the surface of it. “We’ll have to ward our homes. And Henry’s school– _if_ we even decide to let him go, with her roaming the streets.”

“I don’t think she'd ever hurt him," Emma says, surprised to find that she means it. 

Regina scowls. “Well, I’m glad you have such faith in her,” she says, sounding anything but.

At that, Emma can't help but roll her eyes. "In _you_ , Regina," she amends, softening by degrees. "In all of you." 

(And Regina breathes again.)


End file.
